AN: Thanks for choosing to read this! It was a little plot bunny I had after reading lilredd3394 's fanfic 'Unwanted'. I'm pretty bad at dialogue so there isn't much, but I hope you enjoy it anyways. Please R+R, It would make me super happy. I already posted this on DA, so if you recognize it that's probably why.

Francis: France
Arthur/Angleterre: England/Britain/Uk
Alfred/Freddie: America/U.S.A.
Matthew/Matt/Mathieu: Canada Felix: Poland

I'm only saying this once: I don't own Hetalia or any of the characters a fore mentioned.

Chapter 1: Unwanted

Arthur and Francis Bonnefoy-Kirkland looked at the small toddlers, Alfred and Matthew, their new sons. That was many years ago. Both boys were now in high school, one loud and charismatic, the other shy and practically mute.

The fresh snow glowed in the dim light of the streetlamps. The deep night was clouded, leaving the sky black and uniform. It was quiet, the soothing yet eerie silence that can only occur after a storm. A single light poured from a lower window in a small house on an otherwise torpid block.

"Why do we keep him around, Francis?" Arthur asked as he sipped his tea, "He's more useless than Alfred."

"He's our son, Angleterre." Francis replied, gazing into his wine glass, "As much as we don't want to accept it, Mathieu is our son."

"He's so bloody useless." the Brit repeated "He's always looking for us or Alfred to help him, but won't even help us in turn when we ask him."

"I know." Francis said, turn his gaze to his husband, "But we can't just tell him we don't want him as our son anymore." Arthur's grin was chilling. He looked past the slightly older man.

"We don't have to." Francis froze. His sky blue eyes widening as he turned to see Matthew. There was no sadness or anger or pain on his face, nor any confusion. It was blank. Not a single emotion adorned the young teenager's features. "Mathieu I-" The Frenchman started only to be cut off by a calm, dead voice.

"You what, Francis?" the boy asked, "You're sorry? You should be. You didn't mean it? Don't give me that bullshit." his voice was still as emotionless as if it was typed words on a page, being read by an English teacher during last period. "You meant every word. You think it all the time. And this isn't the first time you've said it. You wish I never came into your life, that I would just disappear. So I will. Come tomorrow, you'll never see or hear me again. Merry Christmas." With that he plucked an apple off the counter, nonchalant as if he had just commented on a baseball game, and walked up the stairs.

The couple sat for a moment, one bewildered, and trying to figure out what had just happened, the other smirking, glad the useless idiot known as Matthew had finally gotten the hint, and was leaving. Minutes passed, and footsteps were heard on the stairs. They were not Alfred's heavy clomping, which suggested a herd of elephants, rather than a 15-year-old, but they were clearly audible, unlike Matthew's usual footsteps. Francis stood, just in time to see the older twin at the front door. He pulled on a bright red coat, black hat and gloves. At his feet were two large red suitcases, and a black backpack. The youth tossed his keys into the clay bowl, and walked out of that door, and their lives, forever.

Alfred awoke to the smell of burning. That wasn't right, something in him said. Today was Saturday. Saturday meant Matt's pancakes. Matt's pancakes meant waking to a delicious aroma that drew him from his bed with warm tendrils of promising goodness, so that it was as if some magic was summoning him to the kitchen for the most heavenly substance to ever exist on Earth. This was not that sweet, sweet, perfume. It was an odor, foul and vile, the kind that could only be, Arthur's cooking.

Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust, stumbling from his bed, to find why he was not beckoned by tantalizing scents. The first place to look would be the kitchen, so that is where he went. As the teen reached his door he saw a pale yellow sticky note secured just at eye-level. On it, in soft, neat handwriting was a note.

'Dear Alfred,

You will never see me again.

Pancakes are in the fridge, behind the escargot.

Toss them in the microwave, and don't share them with Papa.

I love you, and hope your life is better without me there to hold you back.

XOXO

-Matthew

Alfred threw open the door and ran to Matthew's room, giving that door the same treatment. It looked like a hotel room. Clean. Unlived. The bed was made and the desk was clear. When he checked, the closet and dresser were empty. The only area with any personality was a shelf, tucked in a corner. On it were pictures. All of them had Arthur or Francis. A few also had Alfred and Matthew, but the ones of just the two of them were gone.

The blonde boy needed answers. Now. He walked to the kitchen in dazed silence. Arthur was pulling what appeared to be charcoal from the oven. "Good morning, Alfred." He greeted.

"Where's Matt?" Ask no questions, get no answers.

"Would you care for a scone?" It was as if the man hadn't heard him.

"Where's Matt?" He asked again, his voice colder and piercing.

"Gone." was the simple reply, "We didn't want him. He finally caught on and left. We never have to look at his face again." It was sad to admit, but Arthur Kirkland had inherited his older brothers' abusive ways, only he used words, rather than fists.

"WHAT?!" Alfred exclaimed, his face extremely pale. It was starting to make sense. The note, the scones. But . . . that couldn't . . . couldn't be right. The teenager stepped backwards, then turned and fled to his room. Closing and locking the door behind him. Collapsing on his bed, Alfred F. Bonnefoy-Kirkland curled into a ball and cried.

The airport was busy, for one in the morning. It was three days before Christmas, and some people preferred the cheaper night tickets. Matthew waited outside terminal six, thinking. When he had told his Pa- Francis that that wasn't the first conversation like that they had had, he wasn't guessing. It started almost a year and a half ago.

14-year-old Matthew Bonnefoy-Kirkland slipped in through the front door, for once hoping not to be noticed. He was late, and he had a black eye and bruised ribs. After school, his brother had gone home on the bus. Matthew had missed it. He sighed and just began walking home. When he rounded the corner of the school building, three older boys grabbed him. They thought that he was Alfred, who owed them money. Before poor Matthew had time to explain, that he 'wasn't Alfred, just his identical twin brother' they punch and kicked him, before turning and walking away.

"-so stupid." His dad's voice drifted through the hall. "He can't even manage to be home on time. What a worthless child."

"Arthur!" That was Papa, "How can you say that? Mathieu is a wonderful, sweet, kind boy. Our son!"

Conversations like this became a regular occurrence. Every two or three weeks Matthew would hear his dad say how horrible he was, and slowly his Papa began to agree with him. Matthew knew it was purposeful; several times, his dad looked at him, and smirked. That was always when he left. At first he cried. A lot. He got better and better at masking his tears, his pain. The first time Francis had fully admitted how useless Matthew was, that was when he knew it was time to leave. He began looking for people who would adopt him. He started with his extended family, his dad had practically been disowned for reasons undisclosed to Matt, but he tried his luck. After only a month, which felt like forever to Matthew, he was given the phone number of Michelle Williams.

She was his cousin's, cousin's, dad's, friend's, friend. It was just as confusing as it sounds. But she was unmarried and wanted a son. Between her and Matthew, the paperwork was filed, and she gained custody. They Skyped often and he had already begun to call her 'Mom'. Matthew had been working since the summer between 7th and 8th grade, full time in the summers, part time during the school year, so he had enough money for a new phone, and a plane ticket to Wilmot, Ontario, where Michelle lived.

It had taken three months since his papa first fully agreed with his dad, but Matthew was going to run away, forever. He had worked hard that day. Being as helpless and annoying as possible, ensuring that his fathers would have another 'talk' so that he could give his closing speech. He couldn't help it; Matthew loved meaningful poems and speeches.

A few forlorn tears slipped down his cheeks. They were not for his past life, or for his fathers. They were for Alfred. For the brother he would never see again.

"Like, why are you crying?" the question came from beside him. Matthew turned to see a teen about his age, with blonde hair almost to the shoulder, and lively green eyes. It was impossible to tell this person's gender, the voice was too deep to be feminine, but had a pronounced 'valley-girl' accent. "I'm Felix." He? Yes he, said, extending a hand in greeting.

"M-Matthew" he replied, grasping the offered hand.

"So Waterloo? Living, visiting or passing through?" Felix was referring to their flight, from Washington State to Waterloo, Ontario.

"I'm going to, um, Wilmot."

"Oh yeah, I have an aunt who lives in there, small world huh?" Felix let out a bright, bubbly, laugh. It was almost obnoxious, like Alfred's. Alfred. Another tear made its way down Matthew's pale cheek. "Whoa! Dude! Like why are you crying?" He thought for a moment, Felix was a complete stranger. He couldn't just tell him his life's story, now could he? Could he? Why not? And with that they began to chat, at first about the heavier matters of Matthew's life and then about random nothings. It was quite enjoyable. By the time they boarded the plane, both boys were nearly asleep on their feet, so they bit each other goodnight and slept. For the first time in almost a year and a half, Matthew had a dream, instead of a nightmare.